prompts
by kouw
Summary: Every now and then, the chelsie-anon leaves prompts in my ask, for which I am very grateful. I am uploading the finished stories here for both pleasure and keeping things organised. Reviews are very much appreciated. Rating from fluffy K to steamy M!
1. Prompt 1

**CHARLES CARSON GLANCES OUT AN UPSTAIRS WINDOW TO FIND ELSIE HUGHES IN THE SIDE YARD, TEACHING ONE OF THE NEW HOUSEMAIDS HOW TO BEAT THE CARPETS PROPERLY. HE NOTICES THE FLUSH OF HER CHEEKS AND THE SWEAT UPON HER BROW AS WELL AS THE FACT THAT SHE HAS UNDONE THE TOP BUTTONS OF HER BLOUSE IN THE SUMMER HEAT. WHAT IS HIS REACTION TO THE SIGHT AND WHAT DOES HE DECIDE TO DO ABOUT IT?****-****CHELSIE-ANON**

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'Life's simple pleasures…' he thinks as he watches at Elsie taking the carpet beater from the new maid and showing her how to smack it to the old rugs with force. Her hair is coming undone slightly, little ringlets falling in her neck, soft whisps floating from her temples. She has unbuttoned a few of the buttons of her blouse, revealing soft, creamy skin and she is perspiring slightly, leaving her blushing cheeks glistening in the sunshine.

Soon, not now, but maybe a year or two, he will ask her to come with him and she will be beating the carpets in their own lawn flanked by flowerbeds filled with orange and yellow flowers, with tomatoes growing against the wall and he'll go outside to give her a hand, taking the beater from her and teasing her by patting the carpet without any power so she'll grab it back, whacking the thing, the swooshing sound of the reed in the air and she'll be panting and coming undone like she is now, but he won't have to restrain himself. He'll be allowed to put his hands on her hips to turn her and to kiss her deeply, thoroughly and she'll respond in kind.

He sighs, noticing the stirrings of his groin and letting out a defeated chortle. All he can do now is watch and offer her a glass of wine in the evening - something cold and sweet, not the heady wines of winter, but something light and sparkling and he'll offer to rub her shoulders and she'll turn to him gratefully.

He shakes his head, banishing the thought for now, seeing that she has sent her maid away and she has taken over the task with vigour. He has often wondered who or what she is thinking of when she beats the carpets and he knows he is probably better off not knowing. By the looks of things, she won't be finished for a while - the library carpets are big and heavy and attract dust like none of the other carpets and rugs in the house.

Shall he venture into the sideyard? Offer his help? She is still at it it with an energy he doesn't see that often anymore. Her flush is deepening and he can almost hear her breath. He then makes up his mind and leaves his room (he has started to go there each day for fifteen minutes or so, to get some uninterrupted rest - not to sleep, indeed not, but to be quite alone for just a bit without the fear of having his door knocked on - this is why he knows he won't be able to carry on much longer, this is why he knows he should retire soon), quickly making his way down the stairs, taking off his coat and hanging it by the back door and sliding from the corridors to her.

"Need any help with that, Mrs Hughes?" He asks and she smiles at him and she is a vision, so beautiful and he wonders why he has been restraining himself all these years, why he has been so worried they would be caught, because it's not important who knows, not really. What's important is that she drops the beater and takes a step towards him, only to stand on her toes and clasp on to him. All that really matters is the taste of her mouth, the feel of her form and her heart beating rapidly under his hand.

Soon he'll be doing this in his own backyard. It won't be a year. Certainly not two. But soon.

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First published on my tumblr - reviews very much appreciated  
_Prompt fics are different from my regular fics, mainly because they are not beta'd, written in one sitting and because they've obviously been prompted._


	2. Prompt 2

_Charles Carson decides to take the long path back to Downton Abbey on his half day off. Coming into a secluded glade on the lakeshore, he gazes longingly at the cool water lapping against the wooden dock and decides to shed his clothing in favor of a quick dip. Rising from the water after twenty minutes or so, he finds Elsie Hughes standing at the end of the dock with his clothing in her hands and a mischievous smile on her face. What happens next? - chelsie-anon_

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The water is wonderful. Cool, but not cold, making him feel light and young and strong. He has not felt that way in a long time and it's welcome, it's what he's been longing for. The endless stairs have become mountains to conquer, tea trays boulders to carry, but here, in the water he is free. No bells, no bowing, no unruly footmen and lowered standards. Just floating, his mind allowed to wander here and there. The cottage he has his eye on, his Elsie, the pint of bitter he'll be enjoying on Friday evenings before coming back to a warm home and the comfort of all these thoughts make him close his eyes.

It can't have been more than twenty minutes, but he hears footsteps on the dock and he startles, splashing about a tad, making the water around him roll away in waves and he smirks when it's Elsie, his clothes in her arms and a big smile on her lips.

But there is something off about it. Something he cannot quite put his finger on until she walks to the end of the dock, puts his clothes down and she gets up easily and agile. The skin on her hands is smooth, besides the few freckles, her hair gleams dark in the sun.

"My my, this is not how I expected to find you." She says, her voice melodic, without the cough that had plagued her for the past few weeks.

He kicks his legs under him in the water, hoping to deflect her steady gaze from his groin.

"It's not at all like I thought it would be at all." She adds and starts undoing the hooks and eyes of her dress, slowly and steadily.

He shakes his head. "How what is?" His own voice is clear in his ears, the sound not muffled like he had gotten accustomed to recently. Something is different and off, but he is not scared, for Elsie is with him and she will help him in anything, of that he is sure; unless of course she kills him, which is what he thinks she might be trying to do right now as she shimmies out of her dress and kicks off her shoes.

She bends to push her stockings down and he can't help but look.

"Excuse me, Mrs Hughes, but what are you doing?"

"Isn't that obvious?" She asks, looking at him through her eyelashes, so coy, so carefree. He has not seen her so at ease before. So unafraid of someone finding them. Her stockings end up on the dock as does her corset, her shift, the pins from her hair - his breath hitches as she is glorious before him. Pale with scatterings of freckles, high, firm breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip and he is mesmerized as she unties her knickers and drops them, but doesn't give him time to linger as she jumps in without ceremony.

She comes up from under the surface and he cannot do anything but stare.

"You've not caught on, then, have you, Mr Carson?" Her R's roll from her tongue like caresses.

He shakes his head, shrugs as he tries to keep his bearings and his wits about him. This beautiful woman is in the water with him, nude, as he is and if he weren't so afraid she might observe what she does to him, he'd think he'd ended up in Paradise.

He knows she sees his realisation dawning.

"It's nice of you to have waited for me." She says, her coy smile has made place for a warmth and she reaches out to him. He grabs her hand and pulls.

And he is never letting go.


	3. prompt 3

_Charles Carson cannot account for 3 of his Lordships best bottles of wine. He's checked his ledgers and the wine cellar, 3 times. Taking a deep breath, he rubs at his temples, willing his headache to recede. Elsie Hughes knocked and gently opened the door of his pantry so as not to startle the man. She stood silently at the sight of him leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, her tummy clenching when she saw his brow furrow and a small grimace cross his face. What happens next? - chelsie-anon_

"Mr Carson? Whatever is the matter?" Her voice is lighter than her heart. She has seen this furrowed brow before and she has worried about him before, but they are getting on and things they brushed off as 'glitches' and 'hiccups' have become issues they need to deal with. They have less staff to order about, to blame for things that go wrong - inevitably things keep going wrong with footmen who think it's the first step to becoming a film star, maids who think they can land themselves a rich, titled husband.

"Three bottles of wine are missing. Prized possessions of his Lordship. Wines he wants served for special occasions." His voice is gravelly and monotone. He is tired, she knows, hears it clearly.

"Wine doesn't go missing, we both know that. Perhaps you overlooked them when you took inventory?" She know he hasn't, he has never before at least.

He shakes his head and her heart clenches almost painfully.

"Have you asked his Lordship? Perhaps he has grabbed them to celebrate..."

"He ordered champagne for that. Not wine. Three bottles and I don't want to think it's Thomas, but..."

"I know." She agrees. Not because she thinks Thomas has taken them, but because she understands that this is the first jump his mind takes. Because Charles Carson has a hard time forgiving and an even harder time forgetting and Thomas is not the man Charles needs him to be.

"Come. we'll check the cellar again. Maybe one of the footmen put them away in the wrong place." She reaches out to him and he takes her hand, but doesn't move.

"You know it won't be there, don't you." There is hardly any emotion in his voice now and that's what makes her more uneasy than defeat, than worry, than his normal frantic searching.

"You are probably right, but like all men, you are capable of mistakes, Mr Carson."

"Am I just a man then?" He asks, her hand still in his and she notices how he squeezes a tiny little bit. If she had not been so on edge, she may not have noticed it.

"No, Mr Carson. Not just any man." She smiled and she knows it's wistful, a little sad even and he startles her as he raises her hand and brushes her knuckles with his lips.

"Alright Mrs Hughes. Lead the way." And he doesn't let her go, not when they leave the room, not when they go through the corridor or the Servants' Hall. Everyone can see and she has a notion they do, but he holds on, tender and firm at the same time and she quietly rejoices.

What's three lost bottles of wine if you find something to treasure instead?


	4. prompt 4

_Elsie is sorting through the books in his pantry looking for one of the ledgers from last year to verify the costs as requested by his Lordship. As her fingers walk along the spines of his leatherbound tomes, she discovers an unexpected treat, a volume of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She opens the cover and finds a dedication: For my Elsie, keeper of the key to my heart, forever yours, Charles. What happens next? - chelsie anon_

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He is neat and organised, just like she is, but while she keeps her ledgers, her rotas and journals apart from her few novels. Finding what you need is a bit tricky that way and she finds it out of character for him, but endearing. Right now however she wants to check something so she can get to ordering before they will have to wait another two days.

She slides her fingers over the leatherbound backs, the feel so familiar under her fingers after years of pouring over them - their chairs have gotten closer together as years passed by, their legs press together, their shoulders and upper arms. Checking ledgers together has become almost a pastime. Something they do in lieu of their own domestic arrangements.

Oh, she has darned his socks and mended his clothes for decades now and he always makes sure she the best piece of toast at breakfast and guides her into the pew at church on Sunday morning and it's as close as being homely as they can get.

Right now.

She doesn't allow her mind to wander. She is working. She can dream later tonight, when he pours her wine and touches her hand - they no longer pull away, they may not bother with putting things into words and they may be too tentative to make it physical, but it's very much there and there will be a day he will lean over to her and kiss her cheek, just because he is going to start on his day, checking on breakfast upstairs and she'll be in her parlour going through her ledgers...

The ledger. She was checking, she was working, not thinking about what might be, one day, in the future.

Wine ledger. Butler's book. Silver ledger. Journal. Household expenses to be covered for the male staff. A novel. She looks at the back, there's no title and her curiosity gets the better of her. When she pulls it out to look at the title she finds it's a volume of poetry.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

So very unlike him. Victorian poetry, long, long verses about the deepest of thoughts, the author suffering frail health her whole life, falling in love with a fellow artist, being whisked off to Paris and then Florence against her father's wishes. So outlandish, so very different from them.

She opens the book, running the pages past her thumb from back to front until it's open at the flyleaf and there is his strong, bold writing, a dedication. "_For my Elsie, keeper of the key to my heart, forever yours, Charles_". Her heart skips a beat. Her palms are sweaty and she snaps the book closed, pushes it back in place, turns quickly and leaves the room.

She forgets about the ledger, but not the dedication and it's not that it changes anything between them, not really, it's just confirmation that they are what she has thought they have been for so long. All she needs to do it try and keep herself from blurting out she has seen it.

That evening however, when he pours her wine and they sit together, she reaches for her key ring, going through all the keys one by one until she finds one. Old and heavy and she only carries it around because she is so used to the weight on her hip - it doesn't serve any purpose. She pulls it off and hands it to him.

"What's this?" He asks.

"I need you to take care of that." She says. Her mouth is dry.

"What's it for?"

"Just... hold on to it until you are ready. Then you give it back to me..." She bites her bottom lip, hopes understanding will dawn soon.

He weighs the key in his hand, grasps it tightly for the briefest of moments and puts it in his pocket.

"You saw then?"

She nods.

"But now you've given me your key."

"Until you are ready to give it to me and I am willing to wait." She has waited before, can do it again, do it still.

He takes her hand in his, rubs the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand and he nods, leans over to brush his lips over her knuckles.

It's not eighteen months before she finds the key attached to a bookmark and the volume of Browning underneath the Christmas tree.


	5. prompt 5

_The last of the servants has finally left for the fair in Thirsk and Charles has slipped down to the kitchen for sandwiches and a large portion of Mrs. Patmore's apple tart. He is walking past her parlor when he hears a low contented sigh and is surprised she didn't go with the others. Tiptoeing up behind her settee, he is startled to find that she has removed her skirt and blouse and is sitting in the dark in her shift and stockings, trying to keep cool in the summer heat. What happens next? - chelsie-anon (part 1 of 2)_

He has send them all on their merry way and taken off his coat and waistcoat, has taken the cufflinks from his cuffs and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. If there is nobody about - the family is vacationing in France, taking Anna and Mr Bates with them, poor souls - he can indulge in his own preferred method of relaxing. Mrs Patmore had left him some sandwiches and a piece of apple pie and he has savoured every bite of it, washing it away with barley water, listening to the quiet of the house.

He doesn't often get a moment of pure silence. Oh, there's a drip of the tap that makes itself known and the boards creak here and there, but there are no voices, no rattling of cutlery as it's being washed, no giggling from maids or hallboys. There's no-one manhandling the piano, no bells ringing.

Solitude. Time to read perhaps, or write a letter or two to befriended butlers. Or have a snooze in the garden, since the weather is looking nice - as far as he can see from the small windows in the Servants' Hall (for once he has the whole table to himself to read the paper, a luxury like no other - he doesn't even notice he keeps his paper clear from her place, where she might sit with her gothic novels or bit of darning).

Yes, a snooze in the garden is much to be preferred over the newspaper. He folds it carefully, checks his hands for printing ink - ironing takes care of most of it, but it's warm and his hands are a bit sweaty, the Servants' Hall is stifling in this weather. He looks out the window again - pale blue with wisps of white. He nods as he makes up his mind and makes his way to his pantry to find his book - he can read it in the shade behind the house for an hour or so, leisurely, enjoying the phrasing and plot in his own time.

When he passes Elsie's sitting room, he hears a noise and as he thought she had gone with the others, but when he gently pushes her door open, he sees he is very much mistaken.

She is just unlacing her boots, her dress is already carefully draped on the back of the sofa and he feels his blood rush through his veins as he sees her toned, strong legs, her round firm bottom, the curve of her hip. She pushes her shoes off with her toes, places them under the chair and stretches, her arms held high, her back arching back - the way she does when she is on top of him, he doesn't need to try hard to remember what it looks like from the front, her breasts heavier these days, softer, but enticing and she is so responsive whenever he touches her, kneads the flesh, pebbles her nipples with the pad of his thumbs.

He breathes harder, swallows before he speaks.

"I thought you'd gone with them." His voice fills the room and she just looks around, isn't startled in the least, smiles even.

"I had work to do." She explains.

"Without your clothes on?" He retorts and she is front and center now, her stockings held up by black, unadorned garters which he sees peeping from under the hem of her slip. He knows she is wearing the new underwear she favours these days, the knickers and brassiere instead of the corset he is so accustomed to. 'Change is the spice of life' he thinks, perhaps for the first time. He knows what her skin feels like under his hands, how she can welcome him home like a beacon in the night.

She heard him before she saw him. His footfall is the quietest of all the servants, but she still hears him coming, always. She knew he was in her doorway when she bent over to untie her shoelaces and she knew he was admiring the view, so she gave him that tiny bit of a show. While the others had all gone to Thirsk, Beryl as chaperone, so she'll be getting an earful about abandoning her in the thick of it, she had work to do.

Not exactly work that was part of her vast array of tasks as a Housekeeper - she had everything in order as per usual. No, today she had thought it was time to work on something very different indeed. Charles, to be exact. They had not been together for weeks and while he was coping admirably, she wasn't so much. Especially in the hot weather, when her clothes felt heavy and hot, her stockings itched and her slip was drenched by the end of the day and she imagined him pulling it over her head.

She was thankful she had decided to wear the new brassiere and knickers she had purchased - she was still getting used to them and she couldn't wear some of her clothes because her body in a corset was of a different form entirely, but today, with the stifling heat in the Servants' Hall, she was glad it was just this.

And she was glad it was enticing him.

His breath sounded loud in the quiet room (so much quieter with everyone away, nobody to disturb them, the chance to seduce him much too great not to grab) and she had arched her back, her arms in the air before turning when she heard his voice, finding him flushed and panting, his trousers already tight.

"Without hardly any clothes on." She smirked; "They would get in the way, Mr Carson..." She reached out for him and he took the few steps towards her.

"Very much in the way..." She put her arms around his neck. "After all, aren't you quite undone too?"

His lips on hers, no answer to her question, just his hand traveling from her upper arm to her back, sliding lower over the fastenings of her brassiere to her lower back, pulling her closer, the kiss intensifying. She pressed herself against him, already aroused by the thought of seducing him, of having him close, his skin against hers.

Without breaking their kiss, she started working on his buttons, his fly and he raised the hem of her slip over her thighs, her bum, her back, until she had to let him go for just a moment to allow him to take it off her. They manoeuvred through the room, finding the comfortable chair, where they practically fell upon, his foot still caught in his trousers,

He is warm and he is familiar and it's been so long. She has been thinking about things for over a week now. Every time they are alone, she's wanted to push herself against him, plunder his mouth with her own, to feel his fingertips over the soft fabric of her knickers and there's moisture pooling between her legs and the kissing isn't enough, she wants more, needs it.

She takes his big hand and places it over her breast, urging him on with words and sounds. She knows it's wanton and it's definitely not ladylike, but she isn't a lady and he had often told her he is no gentleman and right now, with everyone away, they are just two people who want each other, who need to be close, to fulfill a need.

She wraps herself around him, her underwear riding up, rubbing herself over him and he is hard for her and throbbing and her sex is almost aching with want and she cannot wait any longer, she needs it now, so she shimmies off him, takes off her bra, her knickers, stands before him naked and his look of adoration, of unadulterated love is enough to make her knees buckle. He leaps up from the chair, sheds his shorts, his vest and has her pinned against her desk, which is not strong enough, but for a moment she forgets to care and allows him to suckle on her breast, to run his fingers over her folds.

The desk groans under the combined weight of them and he pulls her off again, looks around.

"We could always..." and he doesn't have to finish the sentence. They pick up their clothes, their shoes and run from the room, up the stairs, up another, into the East wing, the last room on the left, the Blue Room, the room that's hardly used for guests, but they've frequented before - many times before - and they don't bother to close the door behind them before falling on the bed.

She pulls him over her, wraps her legs around his waist. He's not as hard with the short walk from the Servants' Halls to the first floor, but she knows it won't take long and she kisses him again, runs her nails over his back, rubs her cheek against the curls - grey and white, she has seen them change over time and it's telling that she still wants to put her nose in them, smell his scent - whispers words of want.

He pushes her on her back and she lays open for him, waiting impatiently.

"Please Charles... don't make me wait much longer..." She implores, but when he runs his tongue over the inside of her knee, up her thigh, she no longer protests. She bucks against his mouth when he kisses her there, laps at her entrance, her nub and she hisses, moans, her hands find their way into his hair - thick and luscious, perfect for grasping when she doesn't quite know how to express herself as he pleasures her.

She whimpers when he lets go, but then he fills her and they move so easily together, they are perfect in that moment when he is sheathed in her, his arms around her, hers around him and they look in each others eyes and she doesn't like seeing what's there, because it's not just passion, not just love, it regret and heartache and that's not what she had signed up for when she did her little striptease for him in her parlour.

She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply before managing to flip them over and finding him again. She loves riding him, to be on top, in control, to feel him deeper and deeper inside and she remembers the first time they had tried this position and she had come within a minute. She is stronger now, more used to it, perhaps less sensitive, but it feels good and she rocks back and forth, holding onto him tight and she knows she might cry, but it's worth it, it's worth this little bit of emotion when you are being made feel this good.

This complete.

She falls forward, buries her face in the crook of his neck and she knows he is used to it, it's not the first time she cries during their lovemaking and he's never said anything about it, has always just held her, so she is surprised when he gently rolls her over without losing contact and he brushes her tear away from her cheek, kisses her with the tiniest of kisses.

"Not long now..." He murmurs before settling between her legs, pushing her open so he can reach that secret spot deep within her and she shatters under him, clutching to him. He holds on to her, thrusts a few more times before finishing and they lay on the bed, entangled like they normally do.

Outside the rain is falling, drops smashing against the windows and they both know they have to be quick about dressing, about getting back downstairs and it's probably for the best, because her want, her longing for physical release has changed into a dark feeling she's known for a long while and manages to fight mostly, but not right now.

She presses herself against Charles whose body is heavy, loose and his arm curls around her neck and shoulder. He kisses the top of her head repeatedly, comforting her, because he's known this to happen, has held her through it before, though he'd never said anything then. The fact that he did now fills her with a slither of hope.

"Best get dressed." She sighs.

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(story continues with the next prompt! Oh no, she di'nt, oh yes I did)

_(dearest reviewers, I apologise for not getting back to your kind reviews - I'm on holiday! I will get to them as soon as I can and please don't let it stop ou from posting them, because they really make me incredibly happy and all of them are very much appreciated!)_


	6. prompt 6

_Elsie has been pushing herself harder and harder as time has marched on. They've lost several of the housemaids over the years and Anna gone with Mr. Bates to run the Grantham Arms has meant that she has had to take up the slack to keep the house running. It's been much the same for the butler and he has paused on the back staircase to catch his breath when he catches sight of Elsie sitting on the top step, leaned against the wall with her eyes closed. What happens next? - chelsie-anon (part 2 of 2)_

When Anna and Mr Bates returned from France with the family, they told them things were about to change. Privately, in his pantry. Elsie had taken her seat next to him, the young pair across from them and they had discussed the matter seriously. Their wish to take over the Grantham Arms, to leave service. Charles had not understood how anyone would want to turn their back on a safe position, how they could say 'no' to the esteem and respect they both enjoyed, but he had taken a look at Elsie and she had understood, had taken Anna's little hand in hers and nodded.

"Do it." She had said in a voice that was strong and almost cold. "You'll never regret taking the chance."

He could see Anna was trying hard not to cry. He saw the determined set of Elsie's mouth, the one he knew would make him sorry if he pushed on. He had dismissed the pair, had wished them luck, that he expected a week's notice from both of them in case they were leaving. He had shaken their hands and he had felt as if he was letting go of people he didn't want to lose.

Later, much later, when dinner had been cleared away and the young ones had been sent off to bed and she was darning his socks and he was reading to her, he had stopped mid-sentence. She had looked up and he could feel rather than see that her dark mood had not lifted since that day they had made love in the Blue Room while the others were at the fair.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing." He looked at her and his heart had swelled. She was so fragile right now, and he had the opportunity to make things right, even if he was not entirely sure how. It would mean leaving Downton - though that was not the biggest of it, he was getting on after all, closer and closer to the usual age of retirement - but leaving a life he had known for decades.

But he also knew his life without her in it would be too lonely to bear.

"If you say so." She had smiled sweetly at him and returned to pulling thread to his sock.

So domestic. Homely. In his pantry, with tea on the table and his books and a few of her things she had forgotten to take with her an evening before. They were good together. Not just working, not just managing the house, but as people.

Even he sometimes forgot he was more than a domestic, more than a Butler, but she never did. She always had a firm grasp on her humanity. He saw it in the comforting of homesick charges, in the way her hand had gripped onto his arm when they comforted each other over the death of Lady Sybil. He has felt it in his arms, against his skin when they made love. He is a lesser man if she isn't there. A lesser person without her.

"I'll pour you another cup of tea." He announced and the evening passed without a hitch, without a word to the contrary of him being alright.

It's days since Anna and Mr Bates left. The house is in turmoil. The lack of a valet and Lady's Maid should not have such impact and she is annoyed, harsh words fall from her lips easily and she has taken a moment to herself, to compose herself, because she cannot go on like this. She doesn't have the strength - that what she had prided herself on for endless years is crumbling and she doesn't know how to grip it all back.

He loves her. She is certain of it. As sure as she is that she loves him, but it's not proper for a Butler and a Housekeeper to carry on under the roof of their employers. Not because it's forbidden - indeed, there are more and more houses allowing married staff, some are starting to prefer it even - but because it's how things are _here_. Downton. A pile of brick and mortar that has dictated most of her adult life and his even more.

But he has told her not long now and she doesn't know quite what he meant, but she has an inkling and now he's said it, she finds it hard to wait. To find the patience she is famous for is taking more and more out of her. She has stood in front of her mirror, in the nude, pressing her fingertips in the flesh that is no longer as firm, has run her palms over her skin that is looser as she's aged. She has avoided touching parts of her that she has destined for him, parts that have withered from lack of use and she wasn't sure if she still liked what she saw.

But that was not what her exploration had been about. It had been about acknowledging she was still there, that she was alive and that she would be able to wait, just that tiny little bit longer. What's a year on two decades, three almost?

He finds her standing against the wall at the top of the stairs, her eyes closed, her arms slack beside her body. She is tired. Tired of work, tired of waiting and it's almost time. He has been preparing for weeks. He ascends the stairs, quietly and he can see in the way her body relaxes she has heard him. He is one step under hers and puts his arms around her, she puts her head on his shoulder.

"After Christmas." He says. She looks up.

"Do you promise?" She asks.

"I do." He vows.

"I do too."

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Reviews terribly appreciated, even if I cannot respond to them (right now)!


	7. prompt 7

_Carson sees Mrs. Hughes coming down the steps carrying something heavy, he blusters loudly at her for not asking for help, causing her to stumble and fall. He is barely able to catch her, falling himself in the process. When they come to a stop she is laying on top of him with his arms still wrapped around her. What are both of their reactions?... - Tammy33_

* * *

"Really, Mrs Hughes!" He calls to her as she comes down the stairs, arms full of freshly aired linen. She has a bit of colour in her cheeks - it's warm out and the sheets had been laid out to bleach in the sharp sun - strands of hair have come loose, curling in the nape of her neck. "You shouldn't be doing that! You ought to ask Anna or one of the maids!"

She smirks at him, pulling up an eyebrow. "Really, Mr Carson, you think it would be wise to ask Anna to do this now? In her condition?" She takes another step and she is taking more notice of him than of where she is going. She stumbles, tries to find her bearings, fails and he rushes to her, catches her, but the sheets throw him off balance too.

They are sprawled amidst soft cotton and her weight is comfortable on top of him, her lips mere inches from his and she smiles widely before kissing him soundly. His arms curl around her, keeping her close, kisses her back. Playfully at first, until she lets out a soft moan.

She slides her legs over his, her knees come to rest besides his thighs and she pushes herself against him as she kisses him, her fingers running over the buttons of his shirt - he's divested of his coat and waistcoat, nobody will be calling for him, not now, the family is out for a drive (an idea from Mr Branson, Mrs Patmore had provided a hamper, the nurse is coming with them, saying the fresh air will be good for the children).

Her dress is riding up, her stockings are smooth - the thinner ones she wears during the summer months and he cannot wait for her to lose them entirely, but it's not been that warm yet. Her left garter has slid down, making her stocking fall off her thigh, the skin creamy under his fingers.

Their kisses grow heated and he isn't as uncomfortable as he might have been, his lower back cushioned by a sheet. He is kneading her bum, kissing her and she is rubbing herself against him, he is getting harder and he is a bit worried someone might walk in on the them, but not enough to stop her. He lets out a gasp when her hand travels from his shirt to the front of his trousers and wraps it around the outline of his erection.

She smiles wickedly, leans over and whispers in his ear and he growls, pushes the hem of her dress further over her thighs and her bottom and hooks his fingers under her underwear, starts dragging them down and she is accommodating, so accommodating and it's the weather, the lack of people around, he knows and she tells him it's none of that, that it's him, that she longs for him, his touch, his skin against hers, his hardness against her softness and she undoes the hooks and eyes of her dress, pushes the bodice down her arms and waist so she sits on her knees over him, her bottom bare, her upper body clad in corset and shift, her breasts spilling over the top and he thinks he wouldn't mind dying like that, with the woman he loves above him, her perfect body making him forget about everything but her.

He is certain it ends there and is shocked when she frees him from his trousers, his pants and hovers over him. He rocks his body and they are joined. She bites her bottom lip, inhales sharply, throws back her head and closes her eyes. They move together, establishing a rhythm. She has him trapped between her thighs - the best place he could possibly be - his hands are on her hips, guiding her onto him again and again as he thrusts lazily. It's too warm for more and he loves the feeling of her around him, her wetness gliding over him, he pushes and pulls at her corset, freeing her breasts and palming them, running his thumb over the nipples. She mumbles incoherent words, peppered with profanity, his name, over and over again and she shoves her fingers in her mouth before placing them just so, circling her clit.

He really can't believe they are still doing this, after all these years. He had never thought - years ago - he'd be shagging his woman at the bottom of the stairs in the backroom, surrounded by sheets, his bones and muscles protesting after a while, but he suffers it gladly, watches Elsie as a flush spreads over her chest, her pants echo against the walls and he knows she is close and he is glad because he cannot hold on too much longer. She knows exactly what makes him soar over the edge and she grabs his shirt as she presses her hand against her mouth to stifle her customary loud moan as she comes hard around him.

They are still catching their breath when she smiles widely.

"Still think I shouldn't be bringing in the laundry, Mr Carson?"

He laughs.

"No, Mrs Hughes. You'll always be welcome to bring in the laundry from now on."

* * *

_Dearest Tammy, I hope you like it! I also hope other readers will enjoy! Still very sporadic internet, will be like this for another week! (also incredibly hot where we are, so not used to this!)_


	8. prompt 8

_It had been a very long day, getting the family off to Scotland for their annual visit to family at Dunn Eagle. The remaining staff had been given several days off to visit family or friends and she was looking forward to the peace and quiet of a long soak in the tub. Wearing only her dressing gown and slippers, Elsie opened the bathroom door to hear the sound of running water and Charles Carson singing "She stole my heart away!" What happens next?_

* * *

_Sorry, I took a few liberties with the prompt - hope that's alright! Reviews, as always, much appreciated._

* * *

Really, it wasn't fair. It was not fair at all. Getting the family off to Scotland with all their belongings was not an easy task. Most of the scheduling and supervising came down to her. Like garden parties, seeing to the family wanting for nothing during holidays rested on her shoulders.

And those shoulders had decidedly looked forward to a bath.

Standing in the doorway, looking at the impressive bulk filling the tub filled her both with annoyance - for he must have known she had wanted to have a bit of a soak after all was said and done and she had said goodbye to the junior staff who were all off to their well deserved vacations - and a softness in her heart. A tenderness.

He sang of his beloved smoothing iron, of his heart stolen away and she wondered what he would have said if he had found _her_ with the hot water still running.

"I say..." She says from the doorway, pulling the pins from her hair. "Are you leaving some hot water for the ones who have actually been working today?"

He turns to her almost lazily and she shakes her head.

"Really, Charles." She bends over to untie her boots, toes them off, then takes off her stockings too and walks over to the tub, where the floor is slightly wet from him splashing around.

He huffs. "Who says I have not been doing any work?" He runs a flannel up and down his arms and she tentatively sits at the edge of the bath, admiring his biceps, his strong forearms, the broad expanse of his chest.

"No-one..." She soothes, starts on the hooks and eyes of her dress.

"There's been more fuss than there usually is." He washes his neck and she leans over the tub to turn off the water.

"Well, with two small children and a nanny, there was to be expected to be a bit more... excitement." She shrugs off the sleeves and top of her dress.

She is slightly startled when he suddenly grabs her hand. "Are you alright?" He asks. He's not asked that since... well...

Since.

"I'm fine. Better if I could get in the bath." She teases, smirks a bit.

"It seems a lifetime since we've had the house to ourselves." He comments and she nods. Remembers what happened years ago - decades now *.

"It's nice." She says. "Quiet." When he lets go of her hand with a final squeeze, she gets up, lets the dress fall to the floor, picks it up, hangs it on the hook that is normally reserved for robes and towels.

"Very quiet." She knows he is looking at her, at the way she is undressing and she smiles when she turns to him again when she's taken off everything, leaving her slightly chilly in the clammy air of the bathroom.

"Best avert your eyes, Mr Carson."

"Never, Mrs Hughes."

* * *

* If you want to know what happened all those years ago, there's a chapter in 'Growth' that I am referring to (it's story #18 at the moment, a PWP really).


	9. prompt 9

_Though it was his afternoon off, he was not in the habit of missing supper. She remembered him heading out, book in hand and a rug tucked over his arm. She found him asleep under the old oak tree, one arm carelessly tossed over his head, rogue curl hanging over one brow. Mind wandering to thoughts of what it might have been like to come across him asleep like this in the lofts over the stables when he was a young lad, she felt her cheeks flush hot as she knelt beside him. What happens next?_

* * *

Propped up against the tree, arm flung over his head, there's that one unruly curl springing free. It's falling over his forehead so enticingly and it isn't hard for Elsie to imagine what he might have looked like as a young lad, running around the stables, taking orders from the stable master. A young Charles, strong arms and back from carrying bales of hay, strong thighs from breaking in horses. The smell of the outdoors, of horse, of perspiration...

The rogue curl does it for her. (As well as the thought of his hands on her bottom, the thought of his lips on her breast, the thought of his stomach pressed against her own, but mostly it's the curl. She lies to herself. She is too old to harbor thoughts of his body and hers - together.)

From the moment she clapped eyes on the curl, it had made her heart race. Somehow it stopped him being first footman (or butler) and turned him into a man. A man unlike all others, but a man just the same and it made her long for him to see her as a woman, as more than a housemaid (a housekeeper of a certain age, too old by all means, but human, lonely, ).

She had blamed her unmarried status, her loneliness, the thought that all the girls she had grown up with had married and had their families, but that wasn't it. She had not wanted that life, could have had it with Joe, Joe who had been good and kind and warm even, but did not trigger such... lust.

Years have gone by and here she is next to him, trying to ignore what he does to her and taking the book from his hands carefully. It's a Dickens novel.

'No wonder he is asleep...' She chuckles to herself.

She puts the book down, leans in to wake him gently when she notices something is off.

When she took his book, she had thought the way his arm fell was because he slept (he was only ever this relaxed when asleep perhaps).

Her heart hammers when she puts her hand on his chest.

It's not rising.

Nor falling.

She is shaking now, swallows her panic away as she lays her fingers along his neck.

Nothing.

She bites her lip.

"Charles?" She whispers, tugs on his arm and his head falls to the side and she cannot help the tears that are running down her face. She kisses his cheeks, his lips - they are cold. Kisses his lips again, then gets to her feet. Wipes her face vigorously, stifles the hiccups and looks towards the house.

Help is too late anyway. But she doesn't want to leave him, doesn't want him to be alone, even if he has made his final journey. Even though he doesn't notice her at all, doesn't know she is there, won't ever know again.

So she sits down again, opens the book at the page he had left it and starts to read through her tears.

"_Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before-more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle." *_

After that passage, she starts crying in earnest.

* * *

_*Great Expectations - Charles Dickens_

* * *

_Guys, I am so sorry I have lost my groove. Any and all (constructive) commentary is so appreciated! Please, do review._


	10. prompt 10

_A week since the funeral and Carson was still climbing the stairs every whip-stitch to check on his precious Lady Mary. Elsie wanted to be cross with the girl for causing such stress but found she couldn't. She shoo-ed him upstairs and with quiet reigning throughout the house, she made her way upstairs to his room. Opening the door, she peered in to find him sleeping against the headboard, his reading glasses at the tip of his nose, hands clutching the book in his lap. What happens next?_

His glasses have slipped to the tip of his nose, his book is falling from his hands and he is rumbling out the slightest little snore. He is wearing the same pyjamas he has been wearing for years, the ones she had gifted him the Christmas after she had nursed him after the collapse. They are well worn, soft, obviously comfortable.

She slides into the room, closes the door behind her and sinks down on the chair next to the bed. She pulls the book from his hands, lays it on the nightstand, carefully takes his glasses, folds them, places them on top of the book. She brushes the curl from his forehead, but the stubborn lock falls back immediately.

"You take it all too much to heart..." She says to him, quietly. She needs to say it, but she doesn't want to wake him up. She needs to get the words out, but he doesn't necessarily need to hear them.

"She has her mother and father. Her sister. She has her child as a comfort. You need to take it easier. I know she is appreciative of your constant care, but you... " She swallows, finding it uncomfortable to say the truth out loud: "Are needed elsewhere too."

She strokes his upper arm, his biceps are well-defined still. He radiates a warmth she has been missing for the past week. She won't pretend the passing of Mr Crawley hasn't affected her. It has. Greatly so. She had liked his boyish charm, the way he was ready to take on the big task that was managing Downton. She liked his kindness towards the staff and his bumbling way of learning the ways of the aristocracy. He had needed a few lessons - Mr Molesley had been frank enough about being stood watching a grown man dress himself – but he learned fast and he had been a great champion of Tom - Mr Branson.

For her that had been enough.

"I know you love that girl, I do..." Her fingers slip down the crook of his elbow, his forearm. "And it's alright... but... you need to be careful of yourself. You need to be careful you don't give more than you have to give, that she doesn't ask more of you than is possible..."

Her hand closes around his palm and fingers.

"You are all tired out..." She sighs before rising from the comfortable chair, her hand still holding his and she leans over. Kisses his brow.

"You sleep, my man." Kisses him again, softly touches his cheek with her free hand. "Sleep and be better by morning."

She holds his hand to her lips, then releases it, pulls the covers around him, tucking him in.

She walks around the bed to turn the light off and opens the door. She stands in the doorway, thinking about how this big man hides his big heart under rules and rigidity and that there are few who get to see through it. Thinks she is lucky she is one of those few and that perhaps she should go upstairs.

Look in on Lady Mary.

The girl might like a cup of tea.

* * *

**A/N:** This one is a bit fluffier! Like I promised! Hope you'll enjoy it and don't forget to review!


	11. prompt 11

_It is the end of the night, Charles has shoo-ed the staff off to bed with empty threats of early morning tasks. He walks into her parlor bearing a tray and after pouring two glasses, he sits next to her on the settee. "There was only one serving of the Crepe Suzette, will you share with me?" He holds the fork out such that she has to lean in to receive the bite of crepe. Caramel sauces drips down her chin and she giggles as she reaches up to wipe her chin with her finger. What happens next?_

* * *

He doesn't often get to see her carefree side, he feels privileged she is so at ease with him. At home. Comfortable. When she swipes the drip off sauce from her chin with the tip of her finger, he sees so much more than a Housekeeper, a servant. He sees the young woman she used to be - he has known her for so many years, has dreamt of her for that long minus a day. To him she has not changed all that much.

She can see him staring at her. She is suddenly well aware that his stare is not one of disapproval, but of endearment. She licks her lips, the taste of the crepes still on them and she briefly wonders if his would taste the same.

They spend most evenings together, discussing matters of the house, the staff. Sometimes it turns more personal. She tells him of her girlhood in Scotland, he speaks of being a stable lad and they can both imagine the other young and bright, filled with ambition and taste for life.

Strong and beautiful. Her rosy cheeks, his cheeky grin.

He dreamed of a life outside the limits of a grand house, she of the safety of a roof over her head and food in her belly that service would bring. He returned bitten, disillusioned, throwing himself into the rules and regulations and workings of the system, she found a new step on the ladder luring her into staying.

So they stayed in service, he with the Crawleys, from footman to butler, she coming to them later as headhousemaid, then promoted to housekeeper and that is how they came to share leftover wine, cheese and as it happens: crepe suzette.

Far too grand for the likes of them, they agree on that. Both indulging, relishing, appreciating the sweetness, the depth of flavour, the hint of orange. The orange liqueur that has not completely burnt off in the flambe.

Maybe it's the boozy sauce that does it, but before she knows it, he has reached out to her with his napkin, gently wiping away the remnants of the sauce she has missed and she cannot help but smile.

"You take good care of me, Mr Carson." She says, her voice warm.

"I always try to, Mrs Hughes. I'll always try to." He responds.

* * *

**A/N: **Short and sweet! I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been reviewing so far: YOU ARE ALL FANTASTIC! Also thank you so so much for following and even favouriting! Please know that I really appreciate it. (of course this is where I also beg for more reviews - bad form? sorry)


	12. prompt 12

"_You know he'll never make the first move!" said Beryl over a late night glass of port. "If you don't want to be sat in that parlor of yours, discussing Lady Mary & Mr. George, on Valentine's Day, you'll have to take that bull-headed butler by the horns!" Elsie smiled as she remembered their fit of giggles but Beryl was right. If ever he was to be shifted off his davit of propriety, it would fall to her. Leaving him busy with the staff Valentines, she put her plan into motion. What happens next?_

* * *

Of course Beryl was right when she said that he would never make the first move. Not after all these years - she had been a bit shocked to hear Beryls say it - out loud! - but then again, the cook really liked to call a spade a spade. Plus she was as much a friend to Charles as she was to Elsie and all in all... and it got her to thinking. That maybe she should speak up, be the first one to admit to things.

She didn't much mind taking responsibility, normally. After all that was her job. What she did all day, every day, including Sundays. This was different though. This would be a step in a direction she had not taken in years. Decades. She was only being truthful with herself. Left on the shelf - but her own woman. She had built her life on the service to others and she was good at it.

One of the best.

He was one of the best. He used to receive offers from other houses every other month. Of course he was getting on a bit. Like she was. She had hoped that maybe age would weaken his resolve and there were times she thought she had seen him crack the slightest bit.

Then there had been the matter of him trying to keep from her he knew about her... scare. He was a terrible liar, which was endearing to her. He was good at keeping information to himself and he was good at keeping a straight face in the company of them upstairs, but he had no chance when he faced her. Eye to eye.

That was why she was worried about taking that step. It would be the final bridge to gap and if they did, they would have to face an array of problems and emotions she wasn't sure she would be able to deal with.

Maybe it was better if she didn't say anything. Didn't do anything.

She'd better just go to her parlour. Work on the linen rota. Order soap powders from London. Emerge herself in her work. Or maybe write to Ethel to see how she was getting on.

She sighed.

Another Valentine's Day would come and go with nothing to show for it.

She twisted the cap of her pen, opened the ledger and started her work.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading. I hope you will take the time to review!


	13. prompt 13

_Elsie had admonished him to leave the serving on the sand covered beach to the younger and more agile footmen but he had taken her remark as a slight to his abilities as Butler and insisted on being in attendance the entire day. Charles performed admirably but at the very end of the day, he was hot and tired and took a misstep in the sand. They both heard a loud popping sound followed by a crack as he collapsed into a heap on the sand. What happens next?_

* * *

Champagne all over the beach, all over him and his suit and she shook her head as she made her way to him. The youngsters were huddled together, had not noticed him fall over. Lord Grantham looked up from the blanket with a tad of alarm which vanished as soon as he saw her go to him.

"I say, I don't think I've ever known you to wear such an expensive cologne." She said as she kneeled by him and started picking up shards of glass.

"Be careful." He told her and she could see he was blushing. After all, she had told him to be careful, to leave the serving to the younger men, who by all means were handling the heat better.

"I am. Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?"

"No. Well, not if you discount my pride." He scrambled up, but she stopped him with her hand on his coat sleeve.

"Wait. I'll take care of this glass and then I'll send someone over to find out if the party needs more champagne. I hardly think so - Master George is sound asleep as is little Sybil."

They both glanced at their employers who were conversing softly as the beach started to be covered by twilight.

"Best get you out of these wet clothes."

"Hmm..."

"What?"

"Nothing, Mrs Hughes. Nothing at all."

"And don't you forget it, Mr Carson." Their banter familiar and warming her heart.

* * *

Late that night, when they were all back at Downton and all the servants and their masters were asleep, Charles and Elsie took his champagne soaked suit to the scullery where they rinsed it out.

"I cannot believe you fell over with a bottle of champagne in your hand. And how did you manage to break it?" She asks.

"I tripped over something and I think the bottle hit a rock." He explains.

"Are you sure you are not hurt?"

"Well... I did hurt my shoulder, I think I landed on it a bit awkwardly." He shrugs and there's a loud clicking noise.

"Come, I have something for that in my parlour." Together they make their way to Elsie's sitting room, like they have done a thousand times before. She pulls a little bottle from a cupboard.

"Sit down." She orders.

He listens. He always does. She carefully pulls his robe down and unbuttons his pyjamas from behind as easily as if she has been doing it for years.

She rubs scented oil on his skin, soothing the cramped muscles by kneading his shoulder with a firm hand. His head is against her stomach, just touching her breasts and she drops a casual kiss on his silver hair.

"Really, Charles. You should leave some of the work to the boys." She doesn't stop her massage, diligently works in the oil until his skin is smooth and the muscles relax.

"I knowâ€¦" He grabs her hand then, kisses the back of it. "You are right."

She lets out a sound between a snort and a laugh.

"You always are."

"Not always."

"Often."

He turns and they face each other.

"Alright. Often."

She cups his cheeks and leans in. They kiss sweetly.

"Seeâ€¦" He says when they have broken the kiss. "That was exactly what I needed."

"I know. Because it was exactly what I needed too. Mr Carson."

"Goodnight, Elsie."

"Goodnight, Charles."

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed this little bit of fluff! If you did, please review! (If you hated it, also please review)


	14. prompt 14

_Charles set aside the book of ancient Scottish history he had been reading and glanced at his calendar. Just two more days to prepare his surprise in accordance with the gaelic Druid calendar. Lughnasadh, the 1st of August, the first harvest festival to mark the beginning of fall. Unbeknownst to her, he has already adjusted her schedules and rotas so that she will have the evening off as well as a half day the following morning. What happens next?_

**OOC warning!** (aren't all my fics AU and OOC? Well, I thought I'd better warn you this time)  
The festivals are in the wrong order, I know! Turned out writing them in the right order just didn't work out. I still hope you'll review.

Thank you, **onmyside** for your beta! Oh and I took only small elements from the prompt, I hope that's okay.

* * *

**Beltaine, 1894**

He can't sleep, there is something off, he knows it, it's woken him. A creak, a breeze that oughtn't be there and he's kicked off the sheets and checked the corridor - nothing. All doors closed, the door to the ladies still locked. He shivers - it may be spring, but the night is still cool and he goes to the window to close it when his eye falls on the lawn.

Or to be more precise: on a figure dancing on the lawn.

A naked figure, to be quite correct.

It's Elsie Hughes.

He swallows but doesn't look away. He can't. He's mesmerized. She is beautiful in the moonlight, graceful and she deems herself unwatched, he knows, because she raises her arms to the skies and he has a full view of her front.

He scrapes his throat, both excited and ashamed to find himself staring at her and feeling his body react to it. He has always thought her beautiful (and strong and witty and smart and honest and a myriad other traits he'd look for in a woman if he were a man who'd look for a woman to find things in), but seeing her like this: uninhibited and unprotected and utterly at peace with herself, changes the game.

One last twirl, her hair flying around her in thick, dark tresses and she's gone. He rushes for his bed, climbs in, covers himself thoroughly, making sure no-one would notice his excitement and he shakes his head at himself: who would come look for him? Everybody is asleep, it's the middle of the night. He hears the creaking of the third step on the stairs and he holds his breath. The key in the lock, the door opening and closing.

He cannot get to sleep at all that night.

In the morning he sits in his usual place as does she and she doesn't look like there has been anything out of the ordinary in the night. He wonders if maybe he has been dreaming her up, her strong legs, graceful arms, heavy breasts, long flowing hair.

**Imbolc, 1900**

She has been fiddling with a little doll all day. A little straw thing that crunched in her hand. She is in a mood. She's been snippy with her girls, lingered before answering Lady Grantham's bell and now she is sipping her wine without really listening to him, she nods here and there, makes her little humming noise at times she thinks it might be appropriate.

There are unshed tears in her eyes, but he daren't ask what may be wrong. Something is wrong, obviously - Elsie Hughes doesn't cry. At least not as far as he knows and he has known her for years. He's been looking out his bedroom window every night he cannot sleep. There have been times she was dancing in the nude again and he's noticed it's always around the same time.

But it's cold out now, the festive season is behind them, they can slow down a bit, there are no dinner parties, Christmas parties, New Year's parties. Just the family - the girls are growing up fast, Mary a rare beauty, Sybil all bouncing curls and bright eyes. Edith not quite fitting in, a contemplative one with few exceptional traits. He likes it when it's a bit easier on the servants. Oh, he enjoys planning the parties with Mrs Hughes - she's been Mrs Hughes for so long now, though she is Elsie when he sees her dance and she is Elsie now there is something wrong, when a tear has accidentally spilled onto her cheek.

Her glass is empty and he reaches for the decanter, but she puts her hand over the crystal and shakes her head slowly.

"No... thank you, Mr Carson..." Her voice is almost feeble and then she gets up, mumbles something he cannot quite hear, cannot understand, sounding like 'Brid' or 'Bridean' and she throws the little doll in the fire, takes a last look and leaves the room.

She doesn't close the door.

But he doesn't go after her.

**Samhain 1906**

He's keeping a sharp eye on the girls who are running around the small bonfire in the garden. She is standing to the side, a small smile curling the edges of her mouth. Her eyes sparkle in the firelight and she is looking very pretty in a new dress and her hair done up differently. It's softer. She's been growing steadily more stern the past few years, but as she is standing there, he sees a housemaid who came on a train on a blessed day, long ago.

Mary was only a baby. She is a young lady now, well-spoken and strong-willed. He sees some of Elsie in her. He tries not to linger on the thought, it doesn't settle with him well, makes his heart beat out of rhythm.

Lady Grantham has had Mrs Hughes in the Drawing Room a fair few times the past week, making sure the party would go off without a hitch and she has come down to the Servants' Hall with red cheeks and a quick smile. He loves it when they fall into easy banter over wine and when he helps her with her errands. She took his hand - he doesn't remember why. He remembers how his blood ran a tad hotter.

His cheeks colour when he admits to himself he always loves her. Not just when she is witty and radiant and beautiful. like now, but also when she scolds her maids for laziness, on Sunday morning when she's slept in a bit and comes down looking fresh and rested, even when she has the sniffles and she dabs at the tip of her nose with a handkerchief, embroidered with her initials.

**Lugnasadh 1912**

He is surprised when she enters his room with a plate of sliced bread and fruit. She sits down with a wide smile and starts peeling a pear, an apple. She is looking pretty and relaxed. There won't be any bells for them anymore, most of the others have gone to bed. Lady Grantham has gone up early, claiming a headache - the Dowager had been in sporting form during dinner and Mary had joined the mocking of her mother. He stood by the sideboard, ready to shoot the girl a look when her Ladyship had excused herself.

It didn't sit well with him. It really didn't. But who is he to say anything about it? And he won't tell Elsie, because she will just roll her eyes and tell him that Lady Mary would have been better served with a good spanking here and there as a child instead of lessons in flower arranging.

No, he won't say anything about it. He'll just look at her graceful movements and her warm smile when she offers him some of the fruit, a slice of bread. It's a quaint combination with the oaky red, but he takes the plate. He wouldn't dream of rejecting her.

He'd never do that.

They eat and drink in companionable silence, sometimes broken by a short question, a remark, a lingering look and he is confronted with what she does to him. Her blue eyes boring into his and the way she licks her lips. Her hands are sticky from the juicy pear and there are inappropriate thoughts forming quickly in his head.

How he'd like to lick them clean, how he'd like to have those fingers touch him, how he'd like to touch her... He crosses his legs, coughs, shoves another piece of bread in his mouth and he wonders how it is possible that it's been years since the first time he has had those thoughts for the first time and that they have not diminished in the slightest. That he still gets excited when she bends over the Servants' Hall table or when her dress is an inch lower cut.

That it's been years since he's admitted to himself he loves her and that his love has only intensified over the years.

He wonders if she knows.

**Beltaine 1920**

He sleeps restlessly these days. It's the war - or the aftermath of it, really. Every little cough or creak wakes him. A door opening and closing, however quietly, has him sitting up in bed. He pricks up his ears and he knows that footfall anywhere. He checks his alarm after turning on the light on his nightstand. It's gone two.

He pushes the covers off and goes to the window and waits patiently.

It's been twenty-five years - give or take - since he has seen her the first time. She isn't as lithe as she was then, but he still finds her enchanting. She weaves a web of magic for him as she twirls on the grass. Her body has changed, though not as much as his - her legs are still strong, her arms graceful, breasts round, head held high.

Over the years he has noticed it's always the night of May Day - when the young ones all go out to participate in the festivities in the village and the house is quiet at night as they all sleep deeply from exhaustion and drink.

Her hair is very long, he's not seen it reach past her waist before. Nor has he noticed the streaks of silver. Time marches on for both of them and it's both daunting and comforting. He's been thinking about retiring. After all things are getting slightly less rocky, with Lady Mary married to Mr Crawley - who by all means is trying, though manages to rub him the wrong way at every opportunity.

Anna is looking more and more capable of taking over Elsie's job. His Lordship will have to decide who shall take his. He has always thought he'd die at Downton, but she has made him see there are other things that are more important.

Peace of mind. Quiet dignity. Silent strength to bear all and he doesn't want that, he doesn't want to crumble under a weight that is too heavy for him to shoulder. He knows exactly what he wants and he'll ask her.

Soon.

**Lugnasadh 1926**

"Here..." She puts down a cutting board with a small loaf of bread.

"What's this?" He asks.

"It's bread."

"I can see it's bread, but it's nearly time for bed."

"It's important. It's Lugnasadh and I want to celebrate with you, like we always have done."

"We have?" He is taken aback.

"Yes. Why did you think..." She blushes. "You had no idea... did you..."

He shrugs. He is a bit worried she'll be hurt, but she smiles.

In the end, it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that what they sowed then, they are reaping now.


	15. prompt 15

_Elsie & Charles retired a year when he was called back for a party. Afterwards Charles, anxious to return home, decided not to wait for a ride. Hiking in the storm, he found a large pond across the road. Half-way round, he heard splashing & yowling from a tiny ginger tabby swimming the other way. "Vermin, serves you right!" He was about to turn when the kitten disappeared. Pausing and waiting for the mewling to let him know the kitten had surfaced, the night air was silent. What happens next?_

**A/N:** Guys, I don't think Charles would say that to a drowning kitten, so I left that out - I just couldn't get it in. I don't know if the Anon meant an actual pond or a puddle and I decided on a puddle. Because, you know, my idea of a pond is mainly koi…

* * *

_Why is he so late?_ His help had been requested - formally, in a note from Her Ladyship, saying she didn't know how she was going to do it without Charles' help, something about a Duke and other excuses - and she had smiled at him, told him that he should go, of course. She had taken his suit to check for torn seams (there were none, she had been taking care of his clothes for years) and had made him put it on.

It had been a tad tight.

Lack of stairs, they had told each other (for it certainly wasn't her cooking).

She had brushed his coat and sent him off, taking the opportunity to visit Anna and the baby.

She had cuddled the little one, had made sure Anna was alright and had made a quick round through the cottage, taking the washing from the line and quickly ironing and folding the nappies and tiny clothes. 'Her' girl was doing well - not that she had ever expected anything else, but a helping hand was something she could easily give and she did so with pleasure.

_She had expected Charles to be home by now._

She had tidied everything she could think of, had done the dishes (even scrubbed out the oven) and she was now on the settee, listening to the gramophone (a very generous gift from His Lordship for their wedding) and darning his socks.

She checked the clock.

Normally they would be in bed by now.

She blushed, even though nobody was there to see her, nor to hear her. And anyway: who could ever hear thoughts? Even if they did: they were married. Married and of an age past caring. They had given their lives to service, they would be silly not to grasp every opportunity to celebrate life.

Which they did.

She liked having him close. That was why she was getting worried. Normally she knew exactly where he was. It had been part of her job at first and then it turned into an automatic thing. Now it was because she had given in and was head over heels in love with him. Perhaps it didn't come across as such, they were not given to the public displays of affection of young lovers, but Elsie knew people could see it in them.

She glanced at the clock again and was a bit startled to hear the door. She put away her darning and got up from the settee, walking towards the hall.

"Charles? Are you alright?" She called out and found him on the doormat, dripping with water.

He merely looked at her.

"I didn't know it was raining." She adds.

"It isn't."

He kept one hand under his coat as he took off his hat.

"Are you hurt? Did something happen at the party?" Was he so late because he had been in an accident?

Just as she was going to ask if she needed to call for Dr Clarkson, he pulled his hand away from his coat. In his palm laid a tiny little kitten, covered in his handkerchief.

"The Duke and his wife are of the tardy type," He started as he managed to peel his coat off as he still held on to the kitten, "it was nearly midnight when they toddled off to their appointed rooms and Mr Bates told me to go home, but I couldn't let him do all the work, so I stayed and pulled everything together with Mr Barrow and Alfred."

"I didn't expect anything else." She said quietly, stepping closer and eyeing the little thing in his hand.

"The night was very bright, it's nearly full moon and I wasn't paying much attention and stepped right in the middle of this big puddle."

Elsie's immediately looked at his trousers. They were in a right state, as were his shoes.

"And then?"

"Obviously I was quite put out." Yes, she could imagine and she smiled at him, reaching out to touch his cheek, "But then I heard a little sound and I looked down and I found this kitten clawing at my shoe."

"So you picked it up and brought it home, keeping it warm under your coat. Oh, Charles." She was touched.

"Well, I couldn't leave it there, but when I bent to pick it up, it started splashing about and I got water and mud all over my coat. It's a fiery thing and she reminded me of someone." He smiled back and handed her the kitten.

"Did it now. I'd best not ask, I know how touchy you are about your past." She teased and petted the kitten as she held it close to her breast.

"This kitten is far too small to be without its mother, Charles." She had a marvellous view of his bottom as he untied his shoelaces.

"Yes, I thought so too, but there were no cats nearby and I don't think this one is big enough to walk very far yet." He followed her to the kitchen where she put the kettle on.

She found a cardboard box and put a newspaper on the bottom, then filled a hotwater bottle (the one from the spareroom, she didn't need one anymore, Charles was warm enough to keep her toasty all through the night) and wrapped it in a kitchen towel.

"Is there more hot water?" Charles asked and she smiled before making a show of pouring him a quick cuppa.

"You know I never held you for a cat-person." She said when she finally sat down across from him, nursing her own cup of tea.

"I am not." He answered a little gruffly. "But I know someone who is."

His look at her made her blush.

"Thank you."

"And I don't let a little kitten drown in three inches of water, Mrs Hughes."

"Oh, it's 'Mrs Hughes' now, is it?"

He chuckled and handed the kitten over.

"Thank you, Charles."

"My pleasure, Elsie."

As they leaned over the kitchentable to kiss, the kitten started purring.


	16. prompt 16

_Elsie looked up from the ledger she was working in when she heard the sound of Beryl Patmore giggling. Her eyes widened in disbelief when she realized the sound was coming from Charles' pantry. The two passed her open door and she saw Beryl swat him playfully with her dishtowel and say "You are a brazen one, Mr. Carson!" After stewing for most of the evening, she went to his pantry to confront him only to discover his desk set with fine china, crystal and dinner for two. What happens next?_

* * *

It's been many a year since she's gone without a Valentine's Day card or flowers on her birthday. Little things. Big things, really. Love is not something you can express in monetary terms, in material things. It's fluid and it's difficult and it sometimes makes you experience pain that seems boundless.

Sometimes you just get very irritated. Like when Beryl Patmore calls him 'brazen' and slaps him playfully on the arm. She sees it through the windows from the corridor and she bites her bottom lip and rushes into her room, pulls her ledgers from the desk drawer and starts working furiously.

She is annoyed he doesn't come to see her, like he normally does after upstairs tea has been cleared away. Normally he knocks on her door as soon as Mr Bates and Anna answer their bells, but today she has heard the soft steps accompanied by the uneven one and the knock has remained absent since.

She sighs. She cannot get her work done. She pushes her chair back and gets up, leaves the room to check up on him - he might be unwell, it doesn't do to instantly think the worst of a man. Even if that is what she is inclined to do. 'Expect the worst, hope for the best, accept what will be', her grandmother used to say. Her grandmother had been a wise woman, had told her to go into service, to not fall in the trap of marriage, like she had, like her mother had, like her sister was walking into, eyes wide shut.

Being your own person was exactly what she had always wanted to be and even now, with a certain Butler dedicated to her and her more baser needs, she liked that she didn't have to answer to anyone - besides Lady Grantham. Who was mostly letting her get on with things without much interference.

She left her room, only to find him standing in the doorway of his pantry, obviously looking at something he is both approving and apprehensive of.

"Mr Carson." Her voice is a bit icy, but she feels he deserves it. He ought to know better than to go around making jokes with the cook and giving her the cold shoulder.

"Mrs Hughes." He smiles and beckons her. "What do you think?" He asks.

His room is looking very different with a small table and two mismatched chairs in the middle. The table is set elegantly, a candle has been lit and there is a rose in a small vase.

"Whatever is the meaning of this, Mr Carson?!" Her heart is pounding.

"I've set this up for Anna and Mr Bates."

She turns her head so quickly she can feel the muscles protesting, a creak rings through the sudden silence.

"What? Why?" She is hurt, the look of the pristine tablecloth and immaculately placed plates and glasses had made her mind leap into the wrong direction. She is her own woman, but that doesn't mean she didn't like to be courted.

She might even have said 'yes' were he to ask her to marry him. (A small voice in the back of her head tells her that she would accept him at any given time now, retirement is not far off, she has earned this happiness, the indulgence in her love for him - for she does love him, _she does_, for all his faults, for all his putting the family first, for his ridiculous affection for Lady Mary. She'll never admit she is a tad jealous, that she feels a sting when he rushes to the girl, but it's lessened since Mr Crawley married her, since the baby was born.).

"They haven't much time to themselves, the cottage only sees them at night and for half a day on Sunday if they're lucky."

She nods. It's a nice thing for him to do. Very nice, in fact. He is not normally prone to such surprises. If anything he is still finding it a bit awkward to be working with married staff.

He coughs, a flush creeping into his cheeks.

"I am sure they'll appreciate it." She says.

"I hope so. Because..." He doesn't go on.

"Because what?" He is blushing now, looks around before pulling her to the side by the elbow.

"I have been thinking."

"Have you?" She cannot help but tease him.

"If I was to retireâ€¦"

Again her heart starts pounding.

"I'd need someone to look after me. You know as well as I do that I'd be back here at any given opportunity and make both a fool of myself and of the person taking over."

He is right, the pull would be too much.

She knows that if she were there, there might be another pull. The idea makes her bite her bottom lip, her own cheeks flush, her breathing speed up.

She reaches out to him and he takes her hand.

It's the middle of the corridor, surrounded by the sound of the maids and footmen and hallboys he sinks to one knee.

"Elsie Hughes..." He starts and his voice breaks, tears well up in his eyes.

She squeezes his hand and nods.

He doesn't need to say it. She doesn't need to hear that particular question to know he means it.

* * *

The table set for Anna and Mr Bates is occupied by Charles and Elsie. A first quiet dinner together.

There would be many to follow.


	17. Chapter 17

**The staff was called upstairs for an announcement. The Dowager Countess had succumbed to the pneumonia that had stricken her days before and the house would be plunged into mourning once again. Charlesâ€¦ Elsie's first thought was of him, her eyes darting around the room, searching for his hulking form. "Pardon me, your Lordship, Mr. Carsonâ€¦" she began. "Carson took it rather hard," grimaced Lord Grantham, "said he wanted to walk from the Dower House, has he not arrived yet?" What happens next?**

* * *

Maybe they don't understand. For them it's the loss of a family member, another one in too short a time, it's grief, sorrow.. For the staff it's the loss of a respected employer. Nothing more, not really. No matter how Daisy weeps - she cries and speaks of the kindness of her Ladyship when William came home, nothing but a husk (She doesn't try to forget. She doesn't try to remember. The ache is too much, has become part of her, like the feel of a belt on her bare back or tearing of clothing in the dark of a late night corridor).

Maybe they are blind to it while she sees it with startling clarity.

It's not just the passing of a lady. It's what she takes with her. A way of life, an example, an iron will and a ruling that molded and kneaded him into the man he is. For a moment she wonders if that is what made her dislike the old lady.

That she had pushed and pulled and twisted the man she could have loved, could have held in the palm of her hand, could have built a life with outside mortar and sandstone, halls and stairs and chintz that's never theirs into this solitary man, confined by rules and regulations and too high standards.

Few get a glimpse of what he was before - warm, kind, caring. He still is all of that, he still has a beating heart and blood that runs hot and tears that are shed when that last glass of wine hits him on an almost empty stomach at too late an hour and he tells her of how the little ones remind him of their lost parents and how he was grieved by Mr Bates being locked up and that his heart breaks for Lady Mary - that he worries happiness will never come for her, that it's all so short-lived.

They have told her he was going to walk home from the Dower House alone. That he took it hard.

She waits for him. The large table in the Servants' Hall is empty and clean. The electric light bright, hurting her eyes as they have strained in the dark of the corridors - she knows the house like the back of her hand, doesn't need a candle to light her way.

She hopes he will find his way to her. She lifts the cozy off the teapot, puts the back of her hand against it. Still hot. When he comes a cup of tea will comfort him and she will be still and silent, be what he needs from her in any way she can, for he may have been turned into a man that shields himself, she is a woman of restraint and together they weather everything. She will have to guide him through a rough sea now the chain that held the anchor has been severed.

She will be his compass and the wind that blows the clouds from the skies for him to see the stars.


	18. Chapter 18

_It had been a very long day, first the garden party, then late supper, the last guest hadn't gone to bed until 2am. On his final rounds, walking past the nursery, Sybbie and Baby George were kicking up a fuss. Charles didn't envy the housemaid assigned to sit with them as a new nanny had not been found. He turned away just as a decidedly Scottish voice began to croon a lullaby. From the doorway, he saw Elsie in a rocker with Baby George while Sybbie stood crying in her crib. What happens next?_

* * *

With lady Edith finally having gone up as well as the few 'unusual' guests she had invited, the day had come to a close. He had sent up the footmen hours ago, the maids had gone up even before. Thomas - he couldn't bring himself to calling him 'Mr Barrow' - had helped him without complaining until also going up about half an hour ago (before?) and he was making his rounds through the house.

He is startled by the sound of Miss Sybil crying and the faint hum of a woman singing. He pushes the door ajar and finds her sitting in the rocker - pushed close to the cot where Miss Sybil is standing, holding on to the bars, her face wet with tears - Master George comfortable in her arms - wide eyed and just finished feeding. The bottle is on the table behind her, the baby covered by a soft blanket.

Her hand is running through Miss Sybil's curls. "Sssshhhh… It's alright, petal…" She croons and keeps on singing words he doesn't understand. It makes him homesick for a life that he has never had. He watches her from the doorway, silently, his breath even, restrained as he fears startling her. For fear of being noticed.

She gets up from the rocking chair, shifts the baby so he is more secure, then picks up the crying toddler with one arm. The child instinctively wraps her arm around the Housekeeper's neck, raises her little legs, making the lifting easier.

"Come here… You can have a cuddle too… It's been a long day, hasn't it, my sweet… Sssshhhh…" She rocks for a bit, then pulls the baby's covers over Miss Sybil, covering the still-crying child, keeping her warm. He doesn't understand how she does it and how she manages to look so calm - serene almost - while both children are sniffling and whimpering.

Now she gets to rocking once again, restarting the song she was singing. He should feel as if he is intruding on a private moment, but it doesn't. It feels as if he is seeing something he could have had, they could have had together if they hadn't been too wrapped up in their work, too ambitious. In his case: if he hadn't been too afraid.

He doesn't claim to understand her - as he has told her. She had smiled forlornly, sadly even and had acknowledged it. They had fought over her prying, her interfering and she had shouted at him. Actually shouted. She hasn't forgiven him, he knows. They are careful around each other, which is new and makes him feel cold and indeed lonely.

Seeing her with the children like this strengthens him somehow. He knocks on the doorframe and opens the door a bit further. She looks up at him, smiles.

"Did you come to check up on the children? That is nice of you." She says.

A blush creeps up on his cheeks.

"Yes… I was closing up." He finds it hard to lie to her, but this is not a lie. A half-truth perhaps.

Master George has drifted off, Miss Sybil is furiously sucking on her thumb, eyes drooping, rubbing her little head against the Housekeeper's chest, trying to find her perfect place to sleep.

"The party finally over then?" She inquires and she is still smiling, looking happy and content.

"Lady Edith and her _literary_ friends have all gone up, yes. They are a rowdy bunch." He steps closer to the chair. He puts his hand on Master George's crown and finds himself gazing into her eyes. Captivated. Lost and found at the same time.

He finds there is no anger in her eyes. She is calmly looking back. He thinks it might be love he sees.

The children soften her. He finds she is a natural with them. He remembers how Lady Sybil would come to her sitting room for a chat and biscuits sometimes and how Lady Edith would ask for advice or just someone to listen. He had been there for Mary, but she had been the confidante of the other girls and together they had watched them grow. Now the next generation was partly in their care.

Miss Sybil has fallen asleep and she chuckles.

"This is rather a fine mess." She starts.

"What is?"

"I cannot get away now. It will be a long night and a sore stiff body in the morning for me, I'm afraid." She shifts, kisses Miss Sybil's dark curls.

"Allow me." He puts his hands around the sleeping toddler and gently lifts her from under the covers, places her in the cot. He holds his breath as she stirs.

Soon the breathing evens out and she hands him the blanket and he tucks the child in. She is standing beside him now, the baby against her chest, supported by her strong and gentle hands. He looks at them.

Those hands have never been idle and they won't be for a long time to come. He doesn't know how to make amends, perhaps her anger has to waste away, like sand comes from rocks. Right now she isn't angry with him, nor upset and he carefully weighs his words before saying them.

Something he should practice more.

"The baby looks comfortable."

She presses yet another kiss on the child's head as he sees it and while he knows she shouldn't (not too familiar with 'baby'!), he finds it endearing and doesn't address it.

"He is a little love." She answers. "It's good for him that Lady Mary is starting to show an interest." Her voice is calm, there is no hint of accusation. She has been very kind to Lady Mary, very understanding.

"But…" She sighs. "This little one should be in bed, not curled up against the Housekeeper. He should sleep by himself." She sounds rather sad, he thinks. She carefully places the baby in his cot and covers him, making sure he cannot get under the blankets.

"Sleep well, little ones…" She whispers into the quiet room and turns off the light. They leave the room together, allowing the door to remain open a crack.

They walk to the stairs in silence. Her heels click on the floor, the sound echoing off the walls. He wants to put his arm around her, but he can't. When they reach the door that separates the men from the women, she wishes him good night.

"Morning will be here soon." She says.

"Sleep well, Mrs Hughes."

"And you, Mr Carson."

He listens to her turning the lock and he goes into his own room and he knows sleep won't be coming as thoughts of the other way they might have had - if not for walls too high and thick, if not for fear, if not for ambition - flood his conscience.

No. Sleep won't come tonight.


	19. prompt 19

"_Mr. Carson, shall we…walk back together?" Elsie scurried to catch up to him when he paused to consider her question, smiling to herself when he shuffled to place her to the inside, the way any gentleman would for his lady. They walked along in companionable silence until the Abbey came into view from a small rise in the road. Turning to look down, he studied her with unabashed curiosity, causing her to blush and turn her own gaze to study the tips of their shoes between them. What happens next?_

* * *

He held his step so she could catch up and together they excited the platform, descended the stairs. The station is behind them, Downton in front and they are quiet. Silence between them has always been easy. Comfortable. There is not always need for words, for chatter. Even if her mind is spinning, her mouth is ready to form sentences.

Phrases he is not ready to hear.

So she walks next to him, a bit closer than she usually does, wanting him to feel she is there and gladly so. That she will not wander, walk out of his life like Alice Neal had done. She understands now what had occurred between him and Mr Grigg. She finds it impossible to comprehend a grown man to be caught up in resentment over a woman too fickle to know her mind.

To know a good, caring, honest man when she held him in the palm of her hand.

She knows. Or would know, if he let her. She has made him stitch up the wound and now she has to be careful around it, gentle as to not tear it open again. Steady so she won't accidentally rub salt on the edges, burning it. He will have to set the pace and she will have to accept where they will end.

He doesn't exude anger though. His sleeve touches hers and he doesn't jerk away, like he might have done if he resented her for doing what she has done. Oh, she knows she interferes in other people's business. But it's for their own good. Mrs Crawley was in too dark a place to remain, losing herself in her grief and Mr Grigg was so pitiful, a husk of a man, no pride left. She knew it would be a safe project for Mrs Crawley to get her teeth sunk into. She is a kind woman. Naive of course and not always quite living in the actual world, but practical and nurturing even if this seems contradictory.

They walk at a steady pace. The air is fresh and she breathes in deep. In fifteen minutes, she will have to go inside again, her life lived in little square rooms. She will be dividing her time between rotas and rosters and schedules. He doesn't know he is a comfort to her. That caring for him, about him and even with him (William comes to mind, Alfred, Anna) makes the solitary life in her position at the top bearable.

The house is coming into view and they hold their steps. He is looking at her, she knows. She can feel his eyes boring into her as she gazes steadily ahead, her heart pounding, a blush appearing on her cheeks. If he asks, she'll say it's the cold, but he won't ask.

"All back to normal then." He announces, his voice holding his usual gruffness.

"Yes. I suppose so." She answers. But nothing will be the same now. He will be moving on. Slowly. Perhaps he will let go of Alice. She looks up at him now and finds he is still staring at her. Their eyes meet, her breath catches.

"Lets go home." He says and he moves so she can take his arm.

They often walk like that, especially in winter when there is snow and ice on the ground and a bit of shared warmth is welcome now their bones are more brittle and the cold seems to linger. But this is not just courtesy. This is more than simple kindness and it's more than a friendly gesture.

Forgiveness.

So much sooner than expected.

It greatly pleases her.

"Yes. Lets go home. I'll make you a cup of tea."


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: I think the Chelsie Anon wanted us to write about S04E03 - but I can't. So. Series 1. A bit angsty and a bit pointless. No trigger warnings.

* * *

Charles scratched the back of his neck in frustration, she had taken to avoiding him & seemed to be angry with him. He'd tried to ask her what he had done wrong but Elsie would only scowl & march off shaking her head, mumbling something about keeping her word. She & Anna seemed to be at odds as well, and when he finally cornered her in one of the empty bedrooms & refused to let her leave until they'd settled whatever it was that was coming between them, she burst into tears. What happens next?

* * *

He had never experienced Elsie Hughes crying and he was certain it had not been her intention to burst into tears when he reached out to her and touched her shoulder.

"Whatever can be the matter?" He asked, gently. As gently as he could at least.

"You wouldn't understand." She hiccuped in between sobs.

"Wouldn't I?" He was perhaps not the most perceptive of men and he definitely did not know a lot about women, but he… well… he _liked_ Elsie and he hated to see her so upset.

"Have you and Anna had a falling out?" He asked.

"Yes. You could say that." She sniffled and pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve. For the first time Charles reflected that dresses could be utterly impractical - no matter how elegant it made the ladies look. He knew she would object to being compared to a lady, but she was one, no matter how he looked at it.

"She had been going around with a face like thunder too." He replied.

"It's been brewing for a bit and then I said something rather stupid and she responded and then she just stormed out." She gestured towards the door that was still open ajar.

"Perhaps best to let her cool off." He sounded much like his mother there, telling him to leave things be until his father had come to his senses a bit. His father was of a general disposition until his frustration went over a certain limit and he'd burst like a firework. He would stalk off and return after a few hours, his own calm self again.

"For now, yes, but…" She sighed and looked him in the eye. Her sparkled with the remnants of tears unshed and her cheeks were flushed.

"Come on, it can't be all that bad." He coaxed.

"Surely you must know she and Mr Bates seem to have an _understanding_." Another sigh and she bit her lip now as well. He could hardly tear himself away from staring at her lips, suddenly wondering what it would feel like to kiss her.

"Oh, it won't come to anything. Mr Bates is hardly a young man and he is…" He searched for a word that would replace 'cripple', but couldn't find one. She understood anyway.

"Anna doesn't mind that. Neither of it. She is in love with him." She sounded defeated. "I don't know what we shall do. I don't want to dismiss her, but it's not allowed and you and I both know that well enough."

There was a hint of regret in her voice and he heard it clear as day, but he didn't go into it. Couldn't, found his heart beating too fast, his breath too shallow, thoughts of Elsie on his arm, by his side, in his bed fighting for priority.

"She had better snap out of it." He said, his voice calm but cool. "Downton has never had married servants and we won't be allowing them now."

Her eyes darkened a bit before answering. "No. I thought you'd say that. It's why Anna and I were fighting."

"Please Mrs Hughes. You cannot think it a good idea for a housemaid and a valet to get married? Where would they live, for one?"

A small cottage with a little garden popped up before his mind's eye, white sheets waving in the wind, slippers by the fire, books on a side table. He shook his head.

"Does it matter?" She shrugged, sighed again.

"I'll leave you to it, then." He said, the silence getting more and more awkward as it grew.

"Maybe best." Her face was a mask now, he couldn't see any of the Elsie he… _liked_.

"Anna will come around." He tried in a last effort.

"No, she won't. She loves him. She won't give up." She stated matter-of-factly.

He didn't know what to say. He nodded slightly and left the room, feeling like he had failed her.

The feeling didn't light up for quite some time even though she didn't once hint to the short talk and she and Anna had made up quickly. Dreams of a small cottage started plaguing him, the scent of her was always in his nostrils. He remembered feeling like this before, so he fought it. With all his might.

And he almost won.

Almost.


	21. Chapter 21

"_GÃ²rach bodach!" she grumbled affectionately, moving the silver frame to gather the inventory sheets forgotten on his desk. Turning it to catch the soft lamplight, she gasped and hurried back to her parlor. Charles looked up to find Elsie standing beside him silver frame in hand. "I don't understand, Charles," she said hesitantly. Trying to keep his own voice calm, "Because Alice is my past, and you are my present," he said carefully, "And if I am a very lucky man..." What happens next?_

* * *

She wakes with a start. Her heart is pounding painfully against her ribs. She pulls the covers closer, the fabric tight between clenched fists. She's been having these dreams since she gave him the picture of Alice, had it framed. She still doesn't really know why she has given it to him, why she has gone through his private things again. He hates it when she does it and it's not right, she knows that.

She has a knack for snooping. She is a curious sort, always has been. It's why she doesn't keep a diary - she knows it may be found and her private thoughts are best kept in a place where nobody can reach them. These days her thoughts are innocent - except the fantasies of torturing Lord Gillingham's valet, who she could gladly throttle with her bare hands, but she'll settle for ruining him, completely and utterly, so much he will forever be sorry for what he's done. If any physical harm comes to him, that would be a perk she'll happily accept.

Most of her dreams are of happy times unknown. Of Tom and Lady Sybil with their little girl coming downstairs for a cup of tea and a chat, of William rosy-cheeked and so very much alive. She dreams of a happy, joyful Anna with one babe in her arms and one in her belly, of Charles putting his hand on her shoulder, kissing her temple as they oversee a table filled with those they've brought up.

She is happy he is more open with her, that he shares his memories with her. She understands now why he warns her against sentimentality - but she is different. She embraces the bit of love she has received over the years and cherishes it. Kindness has shaped her, altered her. She doesn't have to fear it, like he does. Did. Shielding himself from pain. For her pain is part of life and while she has told Anna a long, long time ago: a broken heart can hurt as much as a broken limb, she rather feels it, rather knows such love.

But she doubts it will ever be like that with him. He loves her, oh he does, as she him. It's not the passionate, burning, aching love of youth (though she doesn't dismiss it for the more mature). It's a steady flame that never flickers. It's smouldering embers in the fireplace and when you poke them flares will dance and lick in brilliant blues and yellows. He'll be fighting it a while more.

It's alright.

She can be patient. At least she _knows_ now. At least she has been told why he has been holding back. She has given him the picture of his lost love, of his potential 'other way' and all she has to do now is wait. Until he comes to find her, she'll dream. There is no harm in dreaming. None at all. Hadn't Ethel told her that once? That you had to have dreams?

She lets go of the covers and turns over. Sleep claims her within minutes and transports her to a parallel world where she pours tea in dainty cups and he reads on one end of the sofa while she knits on her own end and life is calm and quiet and happy and Alice and Joe are nothing but distant memories.

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**A/N:** I don't know what this is. But reviews are still very much appreciated ;)


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